You Really Are Wicked
by EmeraldOz
Summary: "Because whether you like it or not, you really are wicked." She wasn't wicked. Really, she wasn't. She didn't try to be wicked- so therefore she wasn't, right? Right? So why is the boogeyman rubbing it in her face? Elphaba had some influence when she decided she was wicked through and through. Sort of a prequel to "Guardians of Oz". Rated T because I'm paranoid. One-shot.


**Here you go. A Wicked/Rise of the Guardians crossover one-shot. A sort of prequel to "Guardians of Oz" I guess.**

**2,060 words in this story, not included the AN part. Admittedly the longest I've ever written.**

**Feedback is always welcome! If I did bad, please let me know!**

**I own no characters, and enjoy!**

* * *

She wasn't wicked.

She really wasn't—why did everyone insist she was?

"Oh, you _wicked_ child!"

"You _wicked_ little witch!"

"She's so _wicked_!"

Oz how she _loathed_ that word. _Wicked_. She wasn't wicked. She wasn't!

"Such sinful magic!"

"Look at that green skin! What an aberration!"

"She's wicked!"

"_Wicked_!"

Elphaba tugged on her hair, trying to pull the thoughts out of her head. She wasn't wicked! She wasn't wicked!

She wasn't…

Wicked.

_Wicked. Wicked. Wicked._

The words seared through her mind until she felt the pain blossoming in her chest. Whimpering and wiping at teary eyes, the small emerald child huddled close to herself, hiding in the shadows of the forest outside the mansion. She needed to be away from people. She needed to breathe. She needed to get away from the insults. From the accusations. From the wicked. She wasn't wicked.

She wasn't wicked!

"I'm not wicked…," she whined to no one in particular, just hoping if she said it out loud it would trample over the haunting voiced that replayed in her mind like a broken repeat button.

"Oh, I know you're not wicked, Elphaba."

Elphaba's head snapped up, looking from side to side—who had said that? That wasn't her mind mocking her—that was real. But there was no one. Was there?

"I… you… who…?"

The shadows seemed to laugh at her, "But they _think_ you are."

And suddenly Elphaba felt defensive, "I don't _care_ what they think!" Her small hands balled into fists as she braced herself, standing tall—as tall as an eight year old could. "All I _know_ is I'm not wicked!"

"Is that so?"

"Yes!"

"You know you're not wicked but yet you crippled your sister?"

Elphaba defiance decided to take a joyride somewhere far and unreachable after that. Fear and aggravation took its place—she didn't know who this person was, but how did they know about her sister?

"Show yourself."

"My pleasure," the voice purred, a tall figure rising from the shadows. Elphaba choked out a strangled sound—what in Oz name? The figure, so tall and dark—skin grey like soot and cloaked in shadows. Elphaba rubbed her eyes, almost as if trying to see if this being really was there. Golden eyes bore into her chocolate ones and she was left dumbfounded, racking her brain for something to say before he beat her to it.

"Who're you?"

It was good enough to keep him from taunting her for now.

"My name? Pitch Black, my dear. Who I am?" he grinned, a false sweetness practically dripping from the corners of his lips, "Have you ever heard of the boogeyman?"

"Yes," she mumbled, quirking a brow, "but he's a myth."

"I can assure you I'm no myth."

"You're the boogeyman?" she asked, doubt and disbelief clear in her voice. Sure, Oz was known for many weird things. But the boogeyman had been written off as a legend for so long—it couldn't be true. Could it?

"I am."

And somehow that made her even angrier.

"How do you know about my sister?"

"Young Nessarose? Ah, such a tragically beautiful girl. Too bad she's only five and confined to a wheelchair because of her _wicked_ sister," he taunted.

Her eyes narrowed, but her voice rose an octave, clear that he hit a nerve, "I-I'm not—,"

"Not on purpose. Can't help but be green, right? But that doesn't change the fact people still blame you… including yourself."

"What do you mean?"

Pitch just shrugged, circling around her, "You blame yourself for your sister's disability. Your mother's death." Elphaba had never been more frightened before—how did he know all of this? "And because of that you fear you'll only ever hurt those you love. You fear you're a curse… you fear you really _are_ wicked."

"… Am I wicked?"

Oh how she wished she didn't sound so weak right then. So fragile. But the boogeyman just offered her a small smile. "Far from it."

She couldn't help but beam.

"But they don't believe that. They don't see that you aren't. They only see what they want to—that you're wicked. That don't look past anything else."

Her smile fell—the words hurt. But they did have the bitter taste of truth to them. No one looked past the green. The powers. The cynical behavior. No one looked past the rumors and the cruel words. They only saw Elphaba. They only saw _wicked_.

"What's your point?" she had finally asked, not wanting to brood on the subject anymore.

"You have power my dear. Strong power, which will get even stronger over time. And they'll always label you as wicked. Always."

Elphaba snapped, "Get to the point!" Her little voice was filled with so much anxiety and denial that Pitch couldn't help but grin. "You can't change their mind. You may not be wicked, but they will always see you as wicked. If you can't change their mind, the only thing left to change is you."

"I'm not wicked."

"But you will be," he grinned, sinking into the shadows, "believe me, you will be."

And then he was gone. Just like that, vanished into the darkness. Elphaba replayed his words in her mind—to them, she would always be wicked. His message, although brief, was quite clear— why fight the accusations? Why make them false when you can make them true?

But Elphaba refused.

"I'm not wicked," she repeated again, if only to convince herself.

* * *

Elphaba finally landed her broom a little less than gracefully on the ground. She was sure that she was far enough away that the guards couldn't get to her. Not any time soon, anyway.

And as the adrenaline wore off, she finally processed the situation. The Wizard was behind it all. The Animal bans were his doing. And she defied him. She left everything behind—Glinda, Nessa, and Fiyero. She left behind all the chances she could have taken. Her lifelong dream. She flew out the window on a broomstick and became a wanted criminal. She became the Wicked Witch of the West.

_Wicked…_

A dry chuckle escaped her lips—that word still burned in the back of her mind. She had tried everything to prove the others wrong. To prove she wasn't wicked. And what happened?

It was now in her name.

They still thought her wicked.

"Well, well," a voice purred from the unforgiving shadows of the Gillikin Forest. Her jaw tightened oh so painfully—it just had to happen, didn't it? "Seems I was right all along."

"You have no reason to be here," she spat, her voice humming with rage. She didn't need this right now. The encounter thirteen years ago had been enough, she did not need this again.

"Actually, I'm required here. My job is to drink up the fear of those who live. And believe me when I say all of Oz is practically swimming in fear. I had no idea what caused it until I saw a certain green girl flying off on a broom as the people screamed in terror," his eyes glinted, "I must say, I'm quite proud. You cause more fear than I do. You really _are_ wicked."

"Shut up," she hissed through clenched teeth, "I am _not_ wicked!"

"Still denying it?" Pitch let out a mirthless laugh, "This entire nation has branded you as it! Just accept it! They see you as nothing more than a wicked witch! _The_ wicked witch!"

"So?"

"So if they want a wicked witch, give them one."

That answer shouldn't have surprised her, but she still let out an angry scream and launched a ball of green embers at him. The man sunk into the shadows and reappeared behind her, not even shaken. "What is it with the people I try to help attacking me? You _and_ that frosted brat. Do I have to break your stick and abandon you in the arctic too?"

But Elphaba tuned out after the first few words. "Help?" she repeated darkly. "You want to help me? I don't buy that."

"Maybe not, but I do. Elphaba, you have such power inside of you! You could do so much with it! Gain respect, achieve your goals—,"

"Cause fear? No thanks, not my style."

"You do that whether you try to or not. You see, Elphaba, you may not want to be wicked, but you still cause fear," he stated plainly, "Children will still tremble at every flash of green they see. People will still be to afraid to venture out alone. Whether you want to be good or not, you will still be wicked to them. Whether you try to or not, you will still scare people. And that in itself makes you wicked."

"I'm not wicked."

"Oh really now?"

"I'm not."

He sneered, "You sound like your trying to convince yourself more than me."

"So what if I am? I'm _not_ wicked."

"They'll never think of you as anything _but_ wicked! So if they want a wicked witch, give them a wicked witch! They'll never accept you, so why trick yourself with false hopes?"

Elphaba was silent—her gaze blocked by the brim of her pointed hat. Fingers tightening around the handle of her broom until her knuckles went a pasty green color, she stayed silent. She wasn't really wicked. The Wizard was. Morrible was. Pitch was. But her? She wasn't wicked. She'd never be wicked. _She's not wicked. She's not wicked. She's not…_

"I'm not wicked."

"And here I hoped you had enough common sense to see the winning team offering you a place on their side," he sighed, "Very well then. You're on your own, Elphaba. But just remember this. I will keep returning. Once I snuff out the last of the lights, I will be here. Very often. Because every time someone sees you fly on that filthy old broom, every time someone sees a flash of green, or even hears your name, I will be here for their fear. Their pure _terror_ of you."

She flinched.

"Because whether you like it or not, you really are wicked."

* * *

She slammed the Grimmerie shut, her chant merely stuttering over itself. It was useless. It was hopeless—Fiyero couldn't be saved. Not by the likes of her. She couldn't save Nessa. Or Doctor Dillamond. Or Boq. What made her think she could save Fiyero?

He died because of her. He was being tortured because of her. Because she was the Wicked Witch of the West. For two years she had done more harm than good. She had only wanted to help the Animals, prove a point, stick up for the underdog. Do something good. But what happened? She just wound up getting people hurt. Endangering those who knew the truth.

She let out a bitter chuckle—what truth? That she was a good person? That the Wizard and Morrible were the evil ones? She remembered the Wizard's words.

_Truth is not a fact of reason. It's simply what we all believe in._

The truth was what they wanted to be the truth. And that meant the truth was that she was a criminal. A beast. An aberration. A wicked witch.

The wicked witch.

This was hopeless. It was a lost cause—over before it even begun.

There was no point in this anymore. When she flew out the window two years back she had thought it was the right thing to do. But it wasn't. Oh it was the worst thing to do. Because while she wanted to help the Animals. To prove the Wizard wrong—to reveal the truth—all she did was make things worse. Because she couldn't save people. She meant well, but look at what well meant did! All she could do was scare and frighten. All she could do was be _wicked_.

_Let all Oz be agreed… I'm… I'm…_

And with a choked cry she threw the Grimmerie across the room, wiping furiously at tear filled eyes. They were all right. She was nothing more than what they saw her as. Wicked. Even when she tried to help, she hurt people. She scared people. She doomed those she loved. She was a curse. She was evil.

"I'm _wicked_ through and through!"

Pitch was right—whether she tried to be or not, it was true.

She really was wicked.

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**Virtual hugs for those who review. c:**


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